


Leavetaking

by Lefaym



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes and related fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 06:58:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefaym/pseuds/Lefaym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The time for delay is over.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Leavetaking

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for The Reichenbach Fall.
> 
> Many thanks to [fera_festiva](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fera_festiva/pseuds/fera_festiva) for the amazing beta and Brit-picking job.

Mycroft arranges for Sherlock to be taken to a new safe-house; the third this week, in Tilbury this time. Just a corner of a warehouse, really, but if it weren’t for the lack of windows, it could easily be a flat in one of the nicer parts of London. He also arranges to be there before Sherlock arrives; it’s not a meeting that he particularly wants to have, but delaying it further could have... consequences.

He distracts himself by making tea. There’s no reason not to be civilised, after all.

The tea has just finished steeping when Sherlock walks through the door. Naturally, his brother expresses no surprise at finding him there.

A number of possible greetings run through Mycroft’s head, but selecting the right one proves unusually difficult. They’ve communicated, of course, since all that mess at St Bart’s, but this is the first time they’ve actually seen each other, and the wrong choice could cause problems.

Eventually, he settles on reprimand. That, at least, is familiar to both of them.

“That was foolish, you know, going to the graveyard. It might have cost you everything.”

“You’re hardly one to talk about costing me everything.” Sherlock’s face reveals little, but his voice is thicker than usual. Unsettling.

Mycroft dislikes feeling unsettled. “I already told John that I was sorry. He was supposed to pass the message on.” John hadn’t told Sherlock anything; Mycroft knows that much. But of course, Sherlock had found out anyway.

Sherlock simply sits on the armchair opposite Mycroft and pours for himself. Mycroft notes that Sherlock hasn’t been sleeping much, but he’s countered that with more than enough caffeine. Cigarettes too. Well, one can hardly blame him for that, under the circumstances.

Sherlock raises his teacup to his mouth. “I hope it was worth it.”

They both know that it wasn’t, but Mycroft has no intention of apologising further. “You said yourself, you now have an unprecedented opportunity to take down the remnants of Moriarty’s network. They won’t suspect a dead man.”

Sherlock grants him a humourless laugh. “Liberty in death.”

“Exactly.” Mycroft nods. There are many advantages to this situation. Except for the guilt, of course. That does get in the way of things. It has prevented him from doing what should have been done at least a week ago. There is no more time for delay now. Mycroft retrieves an item from his inner pocket. “I’ve got something for you.”

He places the Norwegian passport on the coffee table between them, and waits for Sherlock to pick it up.

“Alexander Sigerson,” Sherlock mutters, reading the name printed on the first page. 

Mycroft nods. “Born in Kristiansand, to a Norwegian father and a British mother. Your parents separated when you were three years old, and you’ve spent most of your life in England. But since your mother died, you’ve been feeling the need to get back in touch with your Scandinavian heritage. You’ll have a credit card with a generous stipend, and your bank records will suggest that you’ve been living in Oslo these past two months.”

Sherlock looks up, glaring. “You’ve given me red hair.”

Mycroft smiles. “I thought it best. We’ll take care of that before you leave.”

“Who says I’m leaving?”

“I say. You’ll be leaving tomorrow with the Bergenfjord, on the 05.46 tide.”

“I’ve got leads on Moran.”

Mycroft purses his lips. “Moran’s movements have been obvious.”

“To us, maybe. Not to the fools Lestrade has working for him at Scotland Yard.”

“Well, quite.”

“By tomorrow night, I will have arranged things so that even Lestrade’s lot—”

“No.” Mycroft uses his firmest tone, the one he developed to perfection when he was twelve.

“It’s essential that I—”

“I notice,” says Mycroft carefully, “that John has agreed to work an evening shift at the clinic tomorrow night, and the path you’d be taking on your way to play your little game with Moran would allow you the chance to check up on him.”

Sherlock’s mouth tightens a little, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Just as you looked in on him three days ago, when he saw his therapist. And then today.”

Again, silence. At least he’s not denying it.

“This can’t go on, Sherlock. Follow him around for long enough, and he will catch on.”

“I’m careful.”

“You want him to catch on.”

“No.”

“You miss him.”

Sherlock is silent for exactly eight seconds. “Yes.”

“You love him.” Mycroft is surprised by the tightness in his own voice. In anyone else, he’d say it was jealousy.

It seems that Sherlock is surprised too. He stands, and with two long steps makes his way to the buffet against the wall. He takes a champagne flute between two fingers and inspects it closely. “This crystal is fake,” he says.

Mycroft sighs. “Sit down, Sherlock.”

Strangely enough, Sherlock does as he’s told.

“My people will take care of Moran,” Mycroft tells him. “You can focus on Andersen and Dupont, who appear to have escaped to the continent.”

“Your people will bungle Moran worse than Lestrade’s will.”

“And if you bungle it—”

“I won’t—”

Mycroft raises a hand. “You’ve made mistakes before, Sherlock; it’s not impossible. And think of the cost if you do reveal yourself—if Moriarty’s creatures discover that you’re alive.”

Sherlock clenches his jaw, and Mycroft knows that he has won. There’s relief for Mycroft then, because Sherlock is putting himself in danger as much as anyone else with all this nonsense, but there’s a twinge of regret there too. John has done a remarkable job of keeping Sherlock more or less functioning in these past eighteen months, and it is a shame that all of that needs to be put on hold.

“I’ll have my people watch John too,” Mycroft says, keeping his voice gentle now. “To ensure his safety.” _Because I failed to ensure yours_.

Sherlock looks at him intently, and whatever he’s able to deduce from Mycroft’s face, it’s enough. “Thank you.”

Mycroft inclines his head briefly. There are many things he could say right now, but none of them would be useful, so instead he settles on, “I’ll make dinner, shall I?”

He doesn’t wait for Sherlock to respond. When he reaches the kitchen, Mycroft rests his head against the cool white surface of the refrigerator, and allows himself, for just one moment, to close his eyes. Only for a moment though.

His brother leaves tomorrow, and there’s work to be done.


End file.
